


Arthur Weasley, Minister of Mischief

by Islanderlass



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Arthur has a list, Crack, Except the Lovegoods, Gen, I mean it this time, No one escapes unscathed, Not Canon Compliant - Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets, Other, Quote: Mischief Managed (Harry Potter), Rating May Change, The twins had to get it from somewhere, Weasleys Adopt Harry, and a lot of chocolate frogs, and a plan
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-03
Updated: 2019-05-02
Packaged: 2020-01-01 08:57:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18332810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Islanderlass/pseuds/Islanderlass
Summary: Instead of a mere inquiry, the Ford Anglia incident results in the Minister firing Arthur Weasley.Arthur is the only one who is happy about this turn of events.





	1. Arthur achieves his lifelong dream

**Author's Note:**

> Um, some day, I will sit down and work on my more serious stories. Today is not that day.

“Hem hem.” 

 

Arthur Weasley decided that if he didn’t look up, the other party might go away. He continued to work on his paperwork. Well, he continued to elaborate on the elaborate doodles he had been working on since lunch, anyway. 

 

“Hem _hem.”_

 

_“_ Perkins, for heaven’s sake, don’t you have cough drops? You sound just like Madam Umbridge.” Arthur didn’t still didn’t look up. Should he turn the flower in the upper corner into a winged tiger or jackalope?

 

“It’s not me, Weasley—maybe it’s the pipes,” his coworker replied from the hammock behind Arthur’s desk.

 

“D’you think we should call building services? We wouldn’t want anyone to mistake the pipes for Delores’ dulcet voice, after all. Could get right confusing.”

 

“HEM HEM.”

 

Arthur finally looked up and did a double take. “Delores! Why didn’t you say something! Look, Perkins, we have an esteemed visitor.”

 

Perkins didn’t answer. He actually liked his job, after all.

 

The horrid woman simpered. “Mr. Weasley, sir, the Minister would like a word.”

 

“Ah, yes.” Arthur pretended to consult his invisible calendar. That is—he called it an invisible calendar, but everyone except Fudge and a few trainee Aurors doubted its existence entirely. “Hmm…” he said, running his finger down a nonexistent page. “Goodness me, I don’t think I can fit him into my schedule until February 29th.”

 

“He is the Minister,” huffed Umbridge. “You will fit him in when he tells you to fit him in!”

 

Perkins snorted behind him. “How about September 31,” Perkins suggested.

 

“Don’t be an imbecile,” Delores sneered. “That’s still an entire month away.”

 

Arthur chortled. Whatever would the Ministry do without Delores around? Why, things would be so much more…efficient. He’d probably have to attend his annual reviews, for starters. “Oh, very well. When would the Minister like to meet with me?”

 

“Now,” she said. 

 

“But, Madam,” he protested, “I have a very full afternoon.” He didn’t, really. He was at least four years ahead on his paperwork, and he’d been putting off the newest biting teacup case file until they proliferated into an entire biting tea set. One tea cup wasn’t much of a challenge, after all.

 

“Oh, I’m sure Mr. Perkins will manage,” she cooed. “You don’t need to worry about getting any of that done, Mr. Weasley.”

 

That…was concerning. Very concerning. Delores delighted in forcing people to complete impossible amounts of paperwork at very short notice. Arthur sighed, and fished his chocolate frogs from his file drawer. He’d probably need one or two…dozen…to calm his nerves.

 

“Well?” She demanded. “Get a move on!”

 

“All right, all right,” said Arthur. “Perkins, if I don’t come back before lunch, whatever you do, don’t tell Molly I left with another woman. Delores would be so humiliated to be mistaken as human.” He grabbed his cloak and brief case.

 

“I beg you pardon!” 

 

“It’s fine, Delores,” said Arthur soothingly, “Everyone knows you’re proud of your Toad People heritage; I for one have found it so very refreshing that you don’t insist on wearing a silly glamour.” He held open the door for the sputtering woman. 

 

“You—no—I’m not a Toad Person,” she shrieked.

 

Half the DMLE overheard her and turned to stare. Amelia Bones leaned out of her office door, grinning maliciously. She paid Arthur in chocolate frogs to keep Umbridge in a constant state of bewildered fury. Actually, that was the primary reason Arthur’s children had the finest collection of Chocolate Frog Cards known to underage wizards—Arthur had similar protection rackets going with nearly every Head in the DMLE.

 

“Course not,” said Arthur, tapping the side of his nose and winking at her. “I do understand discretion, Madam. Er—you may want to lower your voice—I’m afraid that DMLE personnel have remarkably suspicious minds. We hear denials all day, so eventually, our brains override those and believe the opposite to be true.”

 

Umbridge looked around furtively. “Er—I am a Toad Person,” she said briskly. “Of course I am! Everyone knows the truth.”

 

Coughing filled the corridor. Amelia’s face turned bright red with suppressed laughter and she nodded at Arthur, holding up two fingers. Arthur nearly bounced in excitement. Two dozen chocolate frogs. Oh, yes! “Shall we go?” He asked demurely, offering her his arm. He tried not to wince when she dug into his skin with her talons, and nearly dragged him towards the Minister’s office.

 

“Thank you for telling me about the denials,” said Umbridge, as they scurried through the building. “It makes sense, of course, given how many scummy low lifes come through the justice department. You’ve always been an honest, helpful man—in a way, I’m rather sorry it’s come to this.”

 

Arthur’s heart beat faster. Was this finally it? The moment he’d been waiting for? Oh, if only he’d known today would be the day! His robes just weren’t suited for such a special occasion. Calm down, old chap, he chided himself. Surely, he wasn’t that lucky.

 

They entered the office to find DetCon, Fudge, and several other people waiting for them. Arthur recognized Gulliver—Malfoy’s boss, and of course, Scrimgeour, the acting head of the DMLE. Albus Dumbledore and Madam Marchbanks sat off to the side, looking…well, Albus looked like Aberforth’s goat had eaten his favorite socks again, and Marchbanks was clearly trying to not smile. Madam Longbottom looked annoyed—she always looked annoyed—and Benjamin Fleet, the Chief Prosecutor, appeared pensive.

 

“Ah, Weatherby!” Cried Fudge. He stood, twisting his bowler between his hands. “So good of you to join us!”

 

“Cornelius, his name is Weasley,” said Scrimgeour. “Weasley!”

 

“Yeah, Rufus?”

 

“I wasn’t talking to you,” snapped the veteran Auror. “And that is Acting Head of the DMLE to you, sir!”

 

“Ah, but Rufus is far easier to say,” said Arthur. “But I suppose I could be persuaded to call you ‘Sir Fussy’, if you fancy that.”

 

“I do not,” snapped Scrimgeour. “And you’d best take this meeting seriously.”

 

“I don’t yet know what this is about,” said Arthur. “So I don’t know which level of seriousness I need to use.”

 

“Surely you know why you’re here,” said DetCon.

 

“Nope.”

 

“The car, Mr. Weasley,” said Fleet. “The Hogwarts Board of Governors has filed a formal complaint.”

 

“And Malfoy isn’t here because…”

 

“Why would Malfoy be here?” Asked Fudge, sweating.

 

“He’s on the board,” said Arthur. “And we are bosom enemies. What’s a good chew out if he’s not here to watch me squirm?”

 

“Malfoy and I voted against the move,” snapped Longbottom. 

 

No wonder she was annoyed—voting the same way as Lucius on any topic was deeply annoying. “Well, that’s novel,” said Arthur. “So, what does the board want, eh? The Headmaster already said he wouldn’t expel the boys.”

 

“Your badge,” said Scrimgeour.

 

“Beg pardon?”

 

  
“We’re offering you the chance to resign,” said Fudge, forcing a smile. “The Board would like us to fire you— to make an example of you—but you’ve always been a dedicated worker, Weatherby—“

 

“Weasley,” hissed Scrimgeour.

 

“Yes, Sir Fussy?”

 

“Still not talking to you!”

 

“Right-o. What, exactly, am I being fired for, Minister? I did not drive that car. I did not give my son or Mr. Potter leave to take the car for a spin.”

 

“Setting a poor example for magical delinquents,” simpered Delores. 

 

“That’s in the penal code, Fleet?”

 

“No,” said Fleet. “No, actually, they want you to resign for conduct unbecoming.”

 

“Ah, the old stand by! So versatile. So unimaginative. I suppose I lose my retirement?”

 

“Unfortunately,” said DetCon. “Sorry, Arthur.”

 

“No, no, I’m sure you did everything in your power to help me.” Arthur truly enjoyed watching DetCon flinch at that. They both knew DetCon had been the one to press hardest for not paying Arthur any retirement. It cut into his budget, after all. He usually got his junior heads to quit within five years for that very reason. Arthur had stayed far past that—because Molly was far more of a threat than DetCon.

 

“You do have options,” said Fleet. “You can challenge this—be put on suspension as my department reviews the case. You can withdraw Ronald from school, and the Board might withdraw its complaint—“

 

“No,” said Albus forcefully. “The child does not deserve that! He would simply be devastated to lose his wand.”

 

Arthur rolled his eyes. More like Albus would be devastated that Potter might make more…politically aware friends. Not to mention Ron didn’t much like book learning, and anyway, Hogwarts was hardly the only school of magic in the world. “I wouldn’t dream of doing so—just picture Molly’s reaction.” He shuddered theatrically. 

 

“Good, good,” said Albus, his eyes twinkling. “So you’re planning to contest the complaint?”

 

“Have you finished telling me my options, yet, Fleet?”

 

“No. You can also apply to another department—I’d be happy to find a spot for you—

 

“Hem hem,” said Umbridge. “Mr. Weasley is hardly qualified to work in the justice department—“

 

“He’s a veteran DMLE minister,” said Fleet tightly. He didn’t, in fact, know how he’d use Weasley but the fellow had a wife, and children, after all. Besides, this idiocy didn’t pass the smell test. If Lucius had a hand in it, he was going to—to—shave his friend’s head, or do something equally awful.

 

 

“In Misuse,” she sniffed. “Hardly a necessary department.”

 

“DetCon should hire you,” said Arthur. “Make people take us more seriously, y’know. He’s always wanted me show more of an interest in the workings of the DMLE.”

 

DetCon tried to catch Arthur’s eye. Arthur innocently stared at the wall over Fudge’s head. Oh, revenge was sweet indeed. “Why, Madam, I bet you’d make a real name for yourself, as Misuse. It’s not worthy of you, of course, but there are so many people who would be thrilled to see you assume the position.”

 

Scrimgeour coughed. “Yeah,” he chimed in, “Bones, especially, would love to work so closely with you. She’s always commented that you have such a unique taste in fashion.”

 

“She is rather challenged herself,” allowed Umbridge. “Well, duty, of course, is paramount to me. Minister, appoint me interim Misuse, and I pledge that I will do my utmost to help DetCon bring his department into the modern, efficient age of Fudge!”

 

“Er, certainly,” said Fudge. Delores latched onto Detcon and hustled him from the room.

 

“Oh, I do hope you’re leaving,” wheezed Scrimgeour. “DetCon and Perkins might team up to exact revenge if you stay.”

 

“A man can but dream,” said Arthur. “I’ve often thought they just needed to find a common interest.” 

 

“Madam Umbridge certainly unites people,” said Marchbanks. “Well, Arthur?”

 

“I’m afraid I must insist on being fired,” Arthur said cheerfully.

 

“But—but—we’re allowing you to resign—“ stammered Fudge.

 

“Oh, yes, but if I did that, Molly would be angry at me. This way, she’ll be angry at you.”

 

Fudge flinched. “Ah—wouldn’t it look better for your next employer if you quit?”

 

“You assume I’ll have a next employer,” said Arthur dryly. “Think I might just work for m’self. Better hours, better food, I can wear whatever I want—yes, indeed, self employment might be the way to go.”

 

“But you could contest the complaint,” protested Albus. “Surely, when it gets to the Wizengamot, cooler heads will prevail.”

 

Arthur shrugged. “Could take years. And if I wanted to deal with barristers that long, why, I’d hire Malcolm Greengrass to sue the Ministry and the Board for anything he fancied.” Not that he could afford the Malfoy lawyer’s rates, but the man had sent him thirty-one letters on the behalf of Lucius last week alone—he clearly needed a hobby.

 

“And he can fancy quite a lot,” said Gulliver merrily. 

 

“That would hardly be wise with your children still in school,” protested Albus. “Think of how their peers would react to such news.”

 

“Who knows if I can afford to send them next year,” said Arthur. Really, Albus was just so convenient sometimes.

 

“Oh, surely this will all blow over by next year,” said Fudge, pale and swaying.

 

Like hell, thought Arthur. Once he was free of this prison, he was never, ever coming back. No matter what Molly said! He did wonder why Fudge looked so worried, though—Fudge wasn’t smart enough to fear Arthur, and Albus generally just made him paranoid. It couldn’t be Lucius, surely—who knew why Lucius had vetoed the Board’s motion, but it certainly wasn’t out of concern for Arthur! But he could afford to be generous—he was so close to his dream, after all. “Oh, well, if you say so, sir,” he said meekly. “Can we please get on with it? I’ve a screw collection to pack, chocolate frogs to eat, a wife to who will want to know why, exactly, we might starve to death…”

 

“I’m sure your friends will rally around you in your time of need,” said Albus, his eyes twinkling. 

 

“This isn’t 1890,” said Madam Marchbanks. “He can get public assistance, just like anyone else.”

 

“Now, Madam,” said Albus reproachfully. “He has his pride.”

 

Sure, thought Arthur. Weasley pride. The trouble, really, was that Albus always confused the Prewetts and the Weasleys. The Weasleys had always gone to great lengths to keep from being respectable. They adored handouts, of any kind—especially ones they could wrest from the Ministry. Respectability meant jobs, jobs meant money, money meant paying for goods and services. The Weasleys preferred bartering, crafting, and, on occasion, “liberating” useful objecys. “So true,” he sighed. “We Weasleys have a long and proud history of bein’ proud wizards and witches.”

 

“Your father would be proud,” said Albus approvingly. “Such an upstanding chap! Why, I remember, one time he turned in my purse and refused a small reward. A shame, of course, that the thief had tossed it in his privy.”

 

Scrimgeour, who had arrested Septimus Weasley for everything from theft to lewd acts with an armadillo, bit back a few choice words. Really, was Albus always so detached from reality? “Well, Minister? Are you going to fire Weasley or not?” He ground out.

 

“Er, yes, yes. You’re fired!”

 

Arthur swept Fudge up in a hug and danced a jig across the office. “Sir! Thank you, sir!” 

 

“Weasley—have you taken leave of your senses?” Fudge shoved him away, and straightened his clothes. 

 

“No, I’ve never felt so alive,” Arthur skipped out the door, his heart light and merry. Ha! And Molly always said they’d never be dumb enough to fire him. Take that, doll!

 

* * *

Arthur flooed home about an hour later, with Misuse's stapler, filing cabinet, and man-eating couch tucked away in his pockets. (Perkins had refused to part with the hammock, and he had no space in his shed for the desks.)

 

“I have wonderful news, Mollywobbles,” Arthur said brightly.

 

“Madam Marchbanks already floo’d.” Molly didn’t look up from her knitting. 

 

“Damnation,” her husband growled. He flung his briefcase onto the kitchen table. “What is wrong with that busybody? I wanted to tell you m’self!”

 

“Arthur, I might have brained you with a frying pan had she not warned me,” Molly said. “I wonder if other women are commonly driven to homicidal rage by their husband’s joy.”

 

“Other women are probably more supportive of their husband’s career goals,” Arthur rooted through the fridge until he found the beer he’d hidden from his third son. Percy really could be such a stick in the mud—one beer, once an evening, did not mean the moral decline of Western civilization. He pried the top off with the tarantula bottle opener he’d bought because Ron had screamed when he’d seen it at the local variety store, and took a long drink. 

 

“At least pour that into a glass,” Molly said. “And eat crackers and cheese with it. Man cannot live on beer alone, really, dear. Other women probably have spouses whose goals don’t include ‘getting Fudge to fire me’.What will you do now that you’ve finally achieved your dearest dream?”

 

Arthur boosted himself up on the counter and took another swig of his beer. “That is the question, isn’t it,” he sighed. “I never thought I’d reach the pinnacle of my professional life so young!”

 

“Really, Arthur, you’re not that young.”

 

“Thank you, dear, that does make me feel better. But that still begs the question—what shall I do with my free time? Take up golf? Fish? Build a decorative pond with a waterfall?”

 

“No,” said Molly. “You’re not old enough to retire. You’d be bored, and I’d commit homicide if you were underfoot all the time. I’ve just gotten all of the children off to school! Besides, we both know you’d just end up the local, perfecting your dart game. You’ll just have to find another job.”

 

Arthur shrugged. “All right.”

 

Molly looked up, surprised. “That’s all you’re going to say? No bemoaning my cruelty? No gnashing your teeth about the unfairness of the world?”

 

“I don’t mind work,” said Arthur. “It’s Fudge-y Wudge-y and his band of Deplorably Stupid Yes Men I can’t stand. ‘Sides, we do need some sort of income if we’re going to adopt the Potter boy.”

 

“Truly, Arthur?” Molly clutched her knitting to her chest. “But—but you said we’d best mind our own business—“

 

“Because you wanted me to keep m’bloody job,” said Arthur, grinning roguishly. “But now, Dumbledore can hardly make my life difficult! It’s not like we’ve got to stay in Britain, after all—we can farm lemons in Italy, or open a little hotel in Marrakech. Whatever m’lady desires.”

 

“I just want you to come up with a nice, sane plan for liberating Harry,” said Molly.

 

“Excuse moi? Just who do you think I am, Madam!”

 

“Fine. A plan. It doesn’t have to be sane. It doesn’t have to be nice. It just needs to be successful.” She tucked her knitting away into the basket next to the hearth and bustled over to kiss him. “Oh! We’re going to adopt Harry! I’m so happy, dear!” She snatched the beer away from him and dumped it down the sink.

 

“Hey!”

 

“Save the drinking for later,” She tutted. “Now, should I warn Percy about your termination before I send a howler to Ron? The poor boy is so sensitive, and you know how badly he wants to work for the Ministry.”

 

Arthur snorted. “Sensitive is not the word I’d use. And no. Kid needs a good shock—to dislodge the stick up his—

 

“Arthur!” Molly’s lips twitched.

 

“Well, Molly, really—better he learns about Fudge’s idiocy now, than later. The Wood boy and the twins will shake him out of his stupor. Besides, he’s not going to like my plan.” A vulpine grin overtook his face. 

 

“I’m afraid to ask,” sighed Molly.

 

Arthur widened his eyes. “Oh, never fear, it’s nothing bad. It’s just I think I’d best get a job sooner rather than later. Seven kids an’ all. Can’t be picky.”

 

“Pick something you’ll enjoy, at least,” she said. 

 

“Oh, I will. This is, when you think about it, a really fantastic opportunity that not every man encounters. A chance to expand my horizons, acquire new skills, make new friends…”

 

“Or enemies,” said Molly tartly. “Don’t annoy the general public too much, dear.”

 

“How about the children? Can I annoy them?”

 

“That’s what we call parenting,” said Molly. “Now, I’m off to parent Ronnie. Any messages you want passed along?”

 

“Thank you for getting me fired?”

 

“No, Arthur!”

 

“Fine. I’m glad he’s not dead.”

 

Molly heaved a sigh. “I suppose I can work with that.”

 


	2. A Howler Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ron receives a Howler.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wasn't planning to write much from the kids' perspective, but Percy vetoed me.

At Hogwarts, that night, Ron was busily shoving food in his mouth when Errol dropped a smoking red envelope in his pumpkin juice. Ron dropped his fork and turned green.

 

“What’s that?” Asked Harry.

 

“Howler,” croaked Ron.

 

“Oooh, you’re in for it now,” said George, grinning.

 

“Serves you right,” sniffed Ginny. Ron scowled at her and she stuck her tongue at him.

 

“You might as well open it,” said Fred. “You know it’ll just be worse the longer you wait.”

 

Ron nodded and ripped the envelope open as the students around him clapped their hands over their ears.

 

“RONALD WEASLEY! WHAT WERE YOU THINKING! YOUR FATHER LOST HIS JOB BECAUSE OF YOUR RECKLESS BEHAVIOR! HE SAID THANK GOODNESS YOU DID NOT DIE—HOW HEWOULD HAVE PAID FOR YOUR FUNERAL, I JUST DON’T KNOW. JUST WAIT UNTIL I GET MY HANDS ON YOU, YOUNG MAN!”

 

There was utter and complete silence in the Great Hall. “Oh, my god,” whimpered Ron. 

 

“You’re dead,” said Fred. 

 

“He wishes,” said George. “Death would be a sweet, sweet mercy. One Mum will never, ever grant him.”

 

“Oh, my god,” Ron said again.

 

“I’m so sorry, Ron,” said Harry feebly. He was pale and trembling. “This is all my fault.”

 

“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Percy. “He’s the one who chose to steal the car! Ronald, I simply can’t believe you’d humiliate Mother in such a way!”

 

“Never mind Mum,” whined Ginny. “Dad! What is Dad going to do? How are we going to survive?” Tears began to trickle down her face. Her dorm mates clustered around her, trying to sooth her.

 

“She’s right,” sneered Draco from the Slytherin table. “Whatever will your father do? Look at the bright side, though—a cardboard box under a bridge might just be a step up from your current hovel.”

 

“Shut up, Draco,” snapped Flint. “Or else.” He cracked his knuckles menacingly. 

 

“You’re defending Weasleys?” Draco said.

 

“Oh, I wouldn’t if their father got fired for something stupid he actually did,” snapped Flint. “But this bullshit smells like your old man, who had better start sleeping with one eye open—he just released Arthur bloody Weasley into the wild.”

 

“Ten points from Slytherin for illogic, Mr. Flint,” said Snape. “Twenty points to Slytherin, Mr. Malfoy, for your ability to find a silver lining.”

 

“Oh, you must be joking,” said Pucey angrily. “The little fucker never shuts his gob, and anyway, Marcus is right—we’re all doomed!”

 

The Deputy Headmistress rose and said briskly, “Forty points from Slytherin for foul language and hyperbole. Your schoolmates are distressed, Mr. Pucey—why can’t ye say something kind?”

 

“Hey, Perce,” called Pucey, “I’ve got firewhiskey—Ollie will show you where we usually drink.”

 

“Mr. Pucey.” Minerva fumed.

 

“Thanks, Ade,” said Percy pleasantly, pushing his glasses up his nose. “After my baby siblings are all tucked in for the night, I’ll be there.” His younger siblings gaped at him—even the twins were too startled to bristle at being lumped in with the two youngest.

 

“Percy,” Hermione shrilled, “you’re a prefect! You can’t drink!”

 

Percy unpinned his badge and handed it to Oliver. “Mr. Wood, I now pronounce you Prefect Prick of Gryffindor. Go forth and kill joy, comfort firsties, and kiss my ass.”

 

“Mr. Weasley,” Minerva stormed over to the Gryffindor table. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

 

“That’s ten points from the Staff for foul language and rhetorical questions,” said Oliver, shaking his finger at his head of house.

 

“I’ll remove ye from the team,” ground out Minerva. “Don’t think I won’t, laddie. Well, Weasley?”

 

Percy shrugged. “I can’t get a job at the Ministry now, even if I wanted one. Which I don’t because I’m not working for the fuckers who gave my dad the boot over something Ronnie the Retard did—“

 

Hermione said bossily, “That isn’t nice! Apologize to your brother right this minute!”

 

Percy blinked at her. “Okay. Ron, I’m sorry you were born such a dumbass.”

 

The twins erupted in sniggers as Ron turned purple.

 

“Anyway,” said Percy loudly, “If I no longer have to be respectable, I might as well have a bit o’fun.”

 

“Hear, Hear,” roared Wood. “One hundred points to Gryffindor for finding your balls.”

 

Minerva snatched the badge from him. “There is no longer sixth year prefect for the boys this year,” she snapped. “All of you! To the Tower!”

 

The Gryffindors groaned as one. The last time their Head had grounded them, it had been due to the Twins dousing her catnip toy with hair removal tonic. It had been a very, very long month until her cat form had regained its fur. And even then, she’d only stopped sulking because Mrs. Weasley had sent her a red and gold cat sweater. No few students wondered what would happen if Mrs. Weasley was too busy disciplining Ron to pay attention to the twins and Percy.

 

(They needn’t have worried. Molly Weasley often got a little bored with just the twins to ride herd on. Two more sons to terrorize—er, that is—keep in line, would just make her very, very happy.)


	3. Nighttime Visitors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lucius is visited by the furies, and Arthur is awoken from his slumber by an Eldritch Personage.

Lucius Malfoy was having quite possibly the worst day of his life thus far. Well, if one didn’t count the Giant Squid Incident of Third Year. Or Sixth Year’s Welcoming Feast, during which the Bloody Baron had serenaded him with an especially risqué version or “A Wizard’s Staff has a knob on the end.” Or the Great DMLE Duck Stampede of 1974. Or…all right, so as Weasley escapades went, Lucius had to admit that this was nothing. Literally. Arthur had done nothing. The bastard! He could’ve accepted Fleet’s naive offer. He could’ve willingly quit, and Prewett would’ve dragged him back into work by his ear within a week. He could’ve groveled to Dumbledore, and the old man surely would have interceded on his behalf, if only to annoy Fudge. But no! He’d forced Fudge to fire him! And now everyone blamed Lucius for the Board’s actions. Pucey, Flint, and Diggory had turned their Friday night snooker game into a chance to rake Lucius over the coals. They’d shown up shortly after dinner with Perkins and Fleet in tow. At first, Lucius had attempted to de-escalate the situation by listening politely, but after three hours of listening to them bitch, he’d reached the end of his rope. 

 

“Once again,” he snarled, “I had nothing to do with the Board’s decision. I—vetoed—the—motion!” He slapped the snooker table, emphasizing every word.

 

Amos Diggory snorted and bolted back another gin and tonic. “Please, Malfoy! We all know you’ve been trying to get Fudge to fire him for ages!”

 

“Because he’s insane,” fumed Lucius. “Because he creates a hostile work environment with his toilet dwelling reptiles and the experiments he conducts in our department fridge. Because he convinced half the junior aurors that I’m secretly Narcissa, and that Narcissa is me. Because he convinced the other half that I’m madly in love with you. Because Fudge has been demanding that I ask Scrivenshaft to design invisible calendars that all of the Ministry can see for six months now.” He threw up his hands in frustration. “But what earthly motive would I have for getting the Board to complain about the fact that his idiot son crashed his car into the Willow? Really?”

 

“You saw your chance and seized it,” said Flint.

 

“And then I voted against it? Are you mad?”

 

“We’ve only your word that you voted against it,” said Pucey. 

 

“I’ll call Augusta over right now, and she can testify for me!”

 

“Come off it, mate, we all know that everyone on that Board is terrified of you—except, coincidentally, Madam Longbottom. I bet you voted last, just to leave yourself the opportunity to look innocent,” Jack Perkins rolled his cue stick between his hands, watching Lucius with hooded eyes.

 

In fact, Lucius had voted last. He’d not believed the sniveling imbeciles would actually go through with that resolution, so he’d been mentally rehearsing what he should say about the car to Arthur the next day at work. It needed to sound sympathetic to the more gullible passengers in the elevator, yet crush utterly crush the ginger. Not that he could say it now, of course—Arthur wouldn’t be at work anymore, and anyway, if he even breathed in Arthur’s direction, Fleet might make good of his promise to dye Lucius’ hair pink. He drew himself up, and said, with as much dignity as he could muster, “Of all people, I would think that you’d be thrilled he was fired. You’ll get a promotion—“

 

“Oh, so you haven’t heard!” Perkins said, “Fudge appointed an interim Misuse Minister already.”

 

“That was fast,” muttered Amos. “Who?”

 

“Delores Umbridge,” said Perkins. “Umbridge! Fudgy replaced my boss with an actual toad—“

 

“Oh, dear gods above,” breathed Flint. “How—What—why did DetCon let that happen?”

 

“He deprived Weasley of his retirement,” said Fleet. “Weasley sicced Delores on him as revenge. I almost felt sorry for DetCon. Almost.”

 

“Then it’s DetCon’s fault,” said Lucius triumphantly.

 

“Oh, believe me, I plan to express my disappointment to him as well,” said Perkins. “I haven’t decided if I should get rid him immediately or make him suffer alongside the Department. But DetCon is simply a shit employer. And he doesn’t know what Weasley is like, not really. You on the other hand—you knew exactly what sort of nuisance you were releasing into the general population. It’s all your fault.”

 

Lucius was most distressed to see the other men nod in agreement. “But—But—you have to believe me! I had nothing to do with it—“

 

Amos Diggory flicked his hand and his wand slid into his grasp “Hold ‘im down, boys— I reckon we can start with the hair.” He smiled madly as Lucius tripped over his own cue stick in a feeble attempt to flee from the wild eyed group. This wouldn’t, of course, do anything to keep Arthur out of trouble, but he’d enjoy this. Oh, yes. Very much, indeed.

* * *

 

In the wee hours of the next morning, Arthur Weasley woke suddenly from his slumber. Molly snored next to him, oblivious to the hooded figure that stood ominously at the foot of their bed.

 

Arthur pulled up the sheet to his chest and quavered, “Oh, fearful specter, why is thee here, visiting this lowly worm?”

 

The Specter lifted an arm slowly, the moonlight causing the sequined, royal purple cloak to glitter. “Arthur Septimus Weasley,” it intoned, pointing long pale finger at Arthur, “Word of your…termination…has reached the powers that be.”

 

“Inevitable, I suppose,” said Arthur. “What are you wearing beneath your cloak? I’ve always wondered what sort of undergarments eldritch personages wear.”

 

“Matching hot pants,” boomed the Specter.

 

“But not a cropped Hello Kitty t-shirt?” Arthur sighed, shaking his head. “Specters, these days, so behind on fashion trends.”

 

“I shall consider your suggestion,” said the Specter, “providing that in return, you perform a most loathsome task.”

 

“Will agreeing mean that you’ll leave me to my sleep?”

 

“For this night only.”

 

Arthur scratched his head. He’d been so hoping that this encounter would not be repeated. Damnation. “Fine. What is it?”

 

“Rita Skeeter must not be allowed to continue down her current path,” the Specter said in sepulchral voice. 

 

“Why? Is she dating a serial killer? Oh, the poor man! We must save him!”

 

“That would be preferable. Sadly, no.”

 

Arthur cocked his head. “So, then, what is it?”

 

“She has been assigned a gossip column,” said the Specter. “Boredom—and copious use of quick-quote quills—can rot the brain. Rita cannot afford to lose any more gray matter.”

 

“I don’t like her enough to get her fired,” Arthur sulked.

 

“Which is why you will force the Editor to give her a promotion.”

 

Arthur mulled that over. “What sort of promotion?”

 

“It hardly matters. Know that should you fail, you will receive three visitors, each more troublesome than the last.”

 

“Right! Well, I wouldn’t want to inconvenience your compatriots. I’ll do it. Can I go back to sleep now?”

 

“Very well. Is there, perchance, beer in this house?”

 

“Veggie crisper behind the rotting cantaloupe. Don’t throw out the cantaloupe—I’ve plans for it.” Arthur laid back down and pulled the blankets over his head. Honestly, how did Molly sleep through the all that?

**Author's Note:**

> Feel free to suggest possible "careers" for Arthur. I already have a few in mind, but my general idea is for him to work a different "job" in each chapter. Some because he genuinely wants to try it, some just to drive various characters insane.


End file.
